


Contre qui, rose?

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Love, M/M, Post HLV, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:41:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2115516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More love, defensiveness, misunderstanding, and love, brought to you by Sherlock and John. Mycroft is the sane one this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contre qui, rose?

“Cigarette?” Mycroft was leaning against the grey Jag. He had driven himself. He took a black cigarette out of a slim, silver case, lit it from the one he was already smoking, and held it out to his brother. 

Sherlock took it, drew the blessed smoke into his lungs, and leaned on the car’s elegant flank. Hand-made cigarette, Bond’s of London. Trust Mycroft, who didn’t even smoke, to have the best anyway. They looked up at the stars, not at each other. 

“I thought you weren’t coming.” 

“I wasn’t. And, technically, I’m not actually there.” He nodded across the dark parking lot to the hall. Golden light spilled out of the windows, laughter floated in the air along with some trite music with a pounding bass line. He winced. He loathed pop music. 

Sherlock grunted and took another drag on the cigarette. 

“You love him, Sherlock. Why did you never tell him?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back, blowing smoke toward the distant stars. He was so tired, so very tired. “I thought you didn’t want me to get involved, Mycroft. Isn’t that what you said?” 

“But you are involved. You aren’t me.” 

Sherlock turned and looked sharply at his brother. “I thought you wanted me to be.” 

Mycroft sighed. “No. I don’t want you to be me. I never have. I want you to be happy. That’s why I came. I wanted to apologize. I don’t want you to be hurt, but, all appearances to the contrary, I do realize that you aren’t a child anymore. I let my fear overcome my judgment. I’m sorry, Sherlock. If you love him, tell him so.” 

Sherlock laughed. The bitterness of it frightened Mycroft. “She’s pregnant. He loves her. ” 

“He loves _you_ ,” said Mycroft. “I think he has from that first night when he refused my very generous offer to become my informant.” 

“Sometimes I thought so, but I… I let my fear overcome my judgment, as you so eloquently put it. I left it too late. Then I left, period. He can’t really forgive me for that. He may love me, but he will never really trust me again. In addition to that, as he reminds everyone at every opportunity, he is not gay. So, while I appreciate your apology, you were essentially right, brother-mine. Better not to be involved after all.” 

Damn John Watson, thought Mycroft. He threw the remains of his cigarette on the asphalt and ground it thoroughly with the toe of his John Lobb wing-tip. He knew how unfair he was being even as he thought it. But, really, damn him. It was Redbeard all over again, but worse. Much worse. His beautiful, brilliant, passionate brother had allowed himself to love with his whole being, had sacrificed the life he knew, had almost lost that life for the wretched man and…. he felt a thickening in his throat. Sometimes he hated everything. 

“Here,” said Sherlock, flicking his own cigarette butt to the asphalt. “You can imagine that one’s Mary or the baby and grind it out, too.” 

“You’ve always known exactly what I’m thinking, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. Take that, Mary, he thought, as he applied himself to the task. 

“Thank you for coming, Mycroft.” Well, that was unexpected. “Give me a lift back to London. I don’t suppose I can persuade you to stop in Brathurst Street for some cocaine before you drop me off?” 

“Please don’t joke about that, Sherlock. I know you’ve had a trying….” Night? Year? Life? Was he joking or was this a danger night? 

“Relax. If you won’t buy me drugs, you can come up to the flat and make me tea instead.” The tone was light, and it chilled Mycroft to the bone. Sherlock’s face was dead white, and he looked somehow worse than he had in the Serbian prison, covered in blood and unkempt hair. 

Danger night. 

~~~~~  


“It’s for a case.” His hand lifted to his stinging face. Molly. _Molly_ had slapped him. More than once. She and John were looking at him, righteous fury on their faces. What the hell did they want from him? He had left them alone and gotten on with the only life left to him. The work. He could have had Molly, that day at the bottom of the stairs. He had seen it in her eyes. But he had carefully drawn back, careful not to hurt her, careful not to use her, careful kiss on the cheek. He had become very careful. He had walked away, his need raging inside him. He had carefully pulled back from John and Mary, given them space. Hadn’t called, hadn’t texted. He had outright rejected Mycroft’s implied advice that he fight for what he wanted. For John. Ironic that Mycroft was the one urging recklessness now, whereas he had been right the first time. This caring lark was exquisitely painful. What did they all want from him? He was just about to ask outright when the text came from Magnussen. The work. He had the work at least. 

… or not. It turned out that even his judgment and his intelligence were compromised, contaminated. He had become a simple weapon, brute force and a well-placed bullet and his life in ruins around him. Any other choice had seemed literally unbearable. He could bear exile and death better than he could bear the disappointment in Mycroft’s eyes and the incomprehension in John’s. 

~~~~~  


John paused at the door. Sherlock stood at the window with his violin tucked under his chin, dark curls blending into the dark night beyond the glass. His white hands moved, delicate and strong, on the bow and strings. A lovely, plaintive melody drifted in the air. 

“What’s that? It’s beautiful, Sherlock.” 

The hands suspended their motion. The back straightened and the violin and bow came down to opposite sides. He didn’t turn immediately. 

“Lauridsen,” he said, still facing the window. “It’s called _Contre qui, rose._ ” He turned then, set the violin and bow carefully on the desk. 

“Tea?” he asked. 

“Sure,” said John. “But that was really beautiful. Was it French? Wasn’t your mother’s family French?” 

“It’s a setting of one of Rilke’s French poems.” Sherlock moved into the kitchen to put on the kettle. “But you aren’t here to talk about music, John. Moriarty?” 

John moved into the kitchen and sat down, watching Sherlock as he moved between the table and the cabinets, put tea in the pot, found cups. 

“Of course Moriarty, Sherlock. Is he really back? Can he be back? What do we do?” 

Suddenly Sherlock stopped, leaned heavily against the table, hands braced on the surface. He bowed his head. His eyes were closed. 

“ _We_ don’t do anything, John. Leave this to me and Mycroft.” 

“Are you insane? Sherlock, look at me. I want to help. Please, let me help.” 

Sherlock opened his eyes. They bored into John’s. “You are going to be a father, John. It’s too dangerous. For all our sakes, please stay out of this.” 

John thought of Mary and of the coming baby girl. He was going to be a father. He looked at the man across the table. He couldn't lose him again. His reached out both hands, covered the long white fingers splayed across the scarred wood surface. 

“Please, Sherlock, let me….” 

“No.” Sherlock jerked his hands back and stood up straight. “Go home, John. I don’t need you.” 

He had been afraid Sherlock would make him choose. But not that he would choose for him. He felt tears in his eyes. He stood so suddenly that the chair fell behind him. He left the flat without a word. 

He stood inside the outer door, breath ragged, half hoping that Sherlock would come after him. Instead, he heard the violin, the same sad, graceful melody. Ignoring the tears on his face, he stepped out into the night. 

~~~~~  


He couldn’t get the melody out of his mind. He kept seeing the white hands, the curve of the back, hearing the tune play out over and over, its heartbreaking notes echoing in the void that Sherlock’s absence left in him. Sherlock had said he didn’t need him, but he didn’t know if he could ever not need Sherlock. That moment, that melody was the last tenuous connection he had with his friend. French, Rilke, something about a rose. He wasn’t sure why he had to find it, hear it again, but he did. He thought Rilke was German, though. After a few minutes on the computer, though, he found it. A choir sang through the tinny speakers of his computer. An arrangement by a man named Lauridsen. A Fench poem by a German. As the haunting music played on, he found an English translation. 

_Against whom, rose,_  
 _have you raised these small swords?_  
 _Did the fragile joy at your heart force you to take up arms?_  
 _How many enemies who did not fear your defenses have I kept from you,_  
 _while, from summer to autumn, you stab the hand that cares for you?_  


How many enemies had Sherlock kept from him? How many times had he protected him? He thought about his own prickliness and defensiveness since Sherlock had returned. Returned from the dead, and to what? John closed his eyes for a long moment. Then he grabbed his coat and headed for Baker Street.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem by Rainer Marie Rilke. The translation in the story is my own (loose) translation. Here's the original:
> 
> Contre qui, rose,  
> avez-vous adopté ces épines?  
> Votre joie trop fine vous a-t-elle forcée de devenir cette chose armée?  
> Mais de qui vous protège cette arme exagérée?  
> Combien d'ennemis vous ai-je enlevés qui ne la craignaient point?  
> Au contraire, d'été en automne,  
> vous blessez les soins qu'on vous donne.  
> 


End file.
